


sleep now, under my skin

by humanveil



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Holmes Brothers, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 10:34:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9319832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: He finds him in a backend alley. It's filthy. Disgusting.  Mycroft can feel the grime sweep into his shoes as he walks towards his brother, can see the rubbish that litters the narrow lane.





	

**Author's Note:**

> okay!!! first fic for 2017, and first fic for this relationship, even though i've been not so subtly obsessed with their dynamic for years. title comes from the song brother by matt corby bc it's playing right now.
> 
> hopefully you like it!!

It takes longer than usual for Mycroft to find him.

He searches all the usual places, stomach clenched with worry, desperation growing when there’s no sign of his little brother anywhere. He tries not to let the emotion cloud his mind, but it grows increasingly difficult.

By the time he does find him, it’s nearing three in the morning. Mycroft’s whole body is exhausted, the legwork more strenuous than perhaps it should have been. None of it seems to matter when he catches sight of Sherlock, though.

He finds him in a backend alley. It’s filthy. Disgusting.  Mycroft can feel the grime sweep into his shoes as he walks towards his brother, can see the rubbish that litters the narrow lane. 

It’s dimly lit, illuminated only by the glow of the main streetlights. Sherlock’s small frame is curled in on itself, bony body covered in a heavy jacket. He’s shaking, whole body tremors that make Mycroft swallow hard. He crouches down, first checking for a pulse despite the obvious signs of life.

The syringe rests next to Sherlock’s hand, metal end gleaming in the low light. Somehow, it feels like it’s mocking him.

There’s vomit not too far from Sherlock’s head. Fresh, by the looks of it. Mycroft sighs, reaching for his brother’s body. He examines him as well as he can, using his limited medical knowledge to determine if he needs to call an ambulance, or if they can wait it out. It’s bad - worse than it has been in quite some time - but it’s manageable.

Standing, Mycroft unbuttons his coat and suit jacket. He lays the latter out on the floor, choosing not to think about how the expensive fabric will be ruined, and carefully takes a seat. Holding the coat in one hand, he manoeuvres Sherlock’s body closer to his own, until the younger man’s head is rested in his lap. He lays the coat over the shaking body, knowing full well it will do nothing to help.

Some things, he’d learnt, were to be done purely for peace of mind.

He curls one arm protectively over his brother’s body, and searches the space around them for the List. He finds it easily; unfolding the paper and scanning the page quickly. Just the usual, he thinks, and then wonders how the hell they’d ever established a _usual_ when it came to this.

Mycroft lets his head fall against the brick of the wall behind them, breathing deeply. His eyes shut momentarily, and he ignores the dampness that sweeps into his hair; would prefer not to acknowledge the kind of filth making its way onto his body.

He doesn’t know when _this_ became normal, just knows that he can’t really afford for it to last. He’s still working his way up the political ladder, and a junkie little brother hellbent on getting involved with some type of trouble every other week isn’t exactly ideal.

And yet, he can’t bear to do nothing and watch as Sherlock destroys himself.

 _Human error_ , he thinks, and then pushes the thought from his mind.

Sherlock’s body has curled around his own, the shaking fingers of one hand resting against the fabric of his dress shirt - as if wanting to hold on to him but being unable to. Mycroft covers the hand with his own, and Sherlock looks up at him through half shut, bloodshot eyes.

He tries to say something, but all that comes out is a raspy noise that may or may not have been _My._ Mycroft shushes him and moves his hand to Sherlock’s hair, fingers tangling in the strands.

It’s a mess of curls. He’d been growing it out, refusing to cut it. It was almost as if he were partaking in a rebellious phase, despite being too old for such things.  Mummy had been appalled the last time they’d seen her, but, privately, Mycroft thinks it suits him.

He sighs deeply, keeping his eyes on Sherlock. All he can do now was wait. Wait until Sherlock comes down enough for him to do something more. This is the part he hates; the helpless feeling – like there was something else that needed to be done despite there being nothing he _could_ do.

He doesn’t bother keeping track of the time. It hardly matters now. All he knows is that, by the time he gets Sherlock to his apartment, the first signs of sunrise have started to appear in the dreary London sky.

Sherlock leans against him, only a little out of it now. Mycroft walks them through his apartment, into the bathroom. He lets go of his brother, dropping both his coat and jacket in a pile on the floor, grimacing as the dirt becomes obvious in the light.

“Bath,” he says, moving to turn on the faucet. Sherlock nods without comment, watching as Mycroft prepares it.

He leans against the wall, swaying slightly as he undresses. Experience means he feels no shame. They’d done this enough times for it to feel like a routine.

The water is warm when Sherlock steps into it, a quiet, relieved sigh passing through his lips. He sinks under, letting his head rest on the baths edge. Sensation comes back to his body; previously numbed parts tingling as the heat penetrates his skin. This had always been the best part of coming down from a high. Mycroft watches him for a moment, face perfectly concealing the worry Sherlock knows is there.

Once he’s sure Sherlock isn’t going to spontaneously drown, Mycroft leaves the room. He moves to his own, ridding himself of the rest of his suit. He longs for a shower, but knows he won’t be able to until later. After changing into something more comfortable – plain pyjama pants and a white shirt – he grabs set of clothes for Sherlock to wear and leaves them hanging in the bathroom.

He has to call in, to say that he won’t make it to work until late, if at all. It isn’t the first time it’s happened, and while they had been understanding, Mycroft knows their patience is wearing thin. He doesn’t want to say that it’s Sherlock _again_ , so he spins a lie. Tricks the receptionist. It’s easy enough; gets him what he wants.

He fills a glass with water and walks back to his brother. He offers it wordlessly, and Sherlock takes it, swallowing it down in one go. It’s the passive quality of his brother’s actions, so unlike his usual attitude, that worries Mycroft most.

He refills the glass using the bathroom sink, watching as Sherlock downs it again. “Better?” he asks, taking the glass from him.

Sherlock nods. Mycroft supposes that’s as close to a _thank you_ as he’ll ever get.

“When you’re ready,” he says before leaving the room again. He should take care of their clothes, should do the washing or make something to eat, but he’s _tired_. The bone deep kind that makes him want to do nothing but lie in bed for days.

He goes back to his bed, leaving the doors open so he can easily hear if anything goes wrong. He always assumes something is going to go wrong.

He nods off without meaning to, chin pressed to his chest, snoring softly as he lies atop the covers. He wakes with a start when Sherlock enters the room, the door banging shut behind him.

Mycroft sits up, lips twitching when he sees him. Sherlock’s hair is out, freshly washed; the damp curls framing his face and sticking to his neck. His clothes hang from Sherlock’s body, far too big for his smaller frame. He’s little more than skin and bone, courtesy of the drug habit, and Mycroft had always been bigger. He seems to drown in the fabric.

Somehow, it’s endearing. Makes Mycroft want to protect him.

“Can I sleep in here?” Sherlock mumbles, voice small. Mycroft’s surprised he even asked – usually he’d just find Sherlock passed out in his bed as if it were his own.

He nods anyway, pulling the covers back and lifting them up, waiting for Sherlock to crawl under. It reminds him of when they were young; of when Sherlock would come into his room, barely older than a toddler, and ask to sleep with him. He’d said it was to stop the nightmares, though Mycroft thought it had more to do with a lack of physical affection.

Sherlock settles next to him, hogging the blanket automatically, and Mycroft lets out a long suffering sigh. They ought to talk about it, he thinks. But the topic of rehab never went over well, and he’d rather not do it now.

 _Tomorrow_ , he promises, and settles down against the mattress; waiting until Sherlock’s soft snores sound before letting himself fall back into the bliss of unconsciousness.


End file.
